


you'll wonder how I'm the best and can do all this with my mouth

by deliciousness



Category: McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: I'm sorry about this, M/M, Miniaturization, Simone fully comes from the Red Room, Surreal, Vore, resizing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 14:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10855557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousness/pseuds/deliciousness
Summary: Before, Griffin's fantasies tended toward garden-variety vore. He was ever the Jonah to anyone's whale, wholly consumed and wrapped up tight in their bodies. It was scarcely even sexual, this need, like an infant swaddled in viscera. But since he met Nick, since he saw the fall of asymmetrical over soft brown eyes, a softer face, his cravings have changed.





	you'll wonder how I'm the best and can do all this with my mouth

**Author's Note:**

> I don't actually have a vore fetish despite all evidence to the contrary, but the idea of writing Simone de Rochefort as the true Black Lodge creature/demigod she is was too much to resist, and I also needed a reason to get Nick all tiny. 
> 
> Title from the seminal R. Kelly song "Cookie."

Simone de Rochefort doesn't understand a lot of the nuances of human life--aside from the marvel of a good pair of fist mitts and the many uses of liquid nitrogen. It's tiring to be omniscient, to know everything yet care for so little. She gains knowledge of humans and shuffles much of it away in the part of her exocortex where she keeps the useless bits and bobs: Canada, sea snails, romance. 

But every now and then something draws Simone out of the multiverse and places her squarely in Terra, in the miasma of humanity and its petty mayhem. She pans the river of mortal sin for these nuggets, these little treasures. She plays with them. Sometimes she collects them, if they give excellent foot rubs. Whether for a day or an eternity, Simone cherishes them. 

And today the cute meat brain wrapped in his dermis like a crab rangoon--another thing she begrudgingly admits is worth the trip to Terra--is Griffin. Oh, Griffin. His apple-cheeked laughs hide a chasm of sadness that calls to her. He'd look amazing on all fours, supporting her long, human-shaped legs like a cushion, glasses slipping down his sweaty nose.

But that isn't what she wants from him. What she wants is more satisfying than an eon's worth of subjugation. After all, she has an army of dads ready to crawl over coals and through the howling void at the quirk of one of her fingers--what's one more?

What could he give her that would match the ecstasy of what she can give him?

She can give him more than Big Bertha ever could. 

Oh yes, she sees him as a gawky adolescent, mouth agape in an unconscious imitation of Bertha's cavernous maw. She sees that little seed--that need to feed, or is it to be fed on?--root and sprout through his life. Now, Griffin McElroy, the sweetest of all baby brothers and 30 under 30 media luminary, has a hungry tree blossoming inside him.

Simone is generous. Simone could bring him to the heights he craves--she could consume him in one mouthful like any other crab rangoon--but that would not sate him. Not now.

Not since Nick.

Before, Griffin's fantasies tended toward garden-variety vore. He was ever the Jonah to anyone's whale, wholly consumed and wrapped up tight in their bodies. It was scarcely even sexual, this need, like an infant swaddled in viscera. But since he met Nick, since he saw the fall of asymmetrical over soft brown eyes, a softer face, his cravings have changed.

Now he hungers to be the consumer, the whale, to swallow Nick Robinson in one gulp.

He wakes from sweaty dreams with one guilty thought: _God, I just wanna slurp him up like a delicious soft boy noodle._

Let it never be said that Simone isn't benevolent. 

\--

"Help!" Nick Robinson peeps, windmilling his tiny arms. "Griffin, Jesus Christ, help me."

It isn't supposed to be like this. Griffin's doing a breakneck stopover in NY for Polycon, and he invited Nick over for some good-to-see-your-face-bro drinks in his hotel, since he'd also flown in from San Francisco. No funny business on the menu. 

Oh, boy, it wasn't supposed to be like this. Nick is half the size of the hotel's dinky complimentary water bottle, his tiny sneakered feet making little pit-pats on Griffin's table.

He's been staring, and Nick's starting to look impatient, but scared too, his shoulders slumping. "Griffin, come on." 

"Sorry, buddy--" he winces, because who wants to infantilize a man smaller than an infant? Like just a little action figure man. "We, uh, we're gonna figure this out."

"Oh, right, we're going to track down the warlock who turned me into a miniature person or whatever. Goddddddd, I cannot believe this." Nick flops into a sitting position with his back propped by the water bottle, head in his hands. "I have _work_ to do in the morning."

"Maybe you can hop on the keyboard like that piano in _Big_ ," Griffin offers, and Nick raises his head to scowl.

"What, you gonna carry me into Polygon's office like a fucking bug you caught?" he says, in a tone more desperate and fraught than Griffin's ever heard, which makes his stomach plummet, and it gets even worse when Nick starts to cry. Griffin can barely hear it, except for the sniffles Nick's clearly trying to repress. 

"Oh no," he says mournfully. 

Nick wipes away a few tears and shakes his hair out of his face, looking up with determination and a set jaw. "It's fine. We can figure this out. Maybe it really was a warlock. Maybe I'm having some sort of fever dream after those suspicious tacos Allegra recommended. It's _fine_."

If Nick's dreaming, Griffin hopes he's dreaming too. Nick's just so small, not the gangly man who shared space with Griffin a few hours ago to make goofs. Then Griffin had barely been able to keep his eyes on him, the unsettling nearness of him, instead of a good warm voice over Skype. 

Now he can't keep his eyes off him. Off his tiny legs, his tiny head, and _gosh_ those little sneakers. 

Griffin's sweating now, despite the air conditioner having kicked on a while back. He hopes Nick isn't cold or anything.

"Do you--need anything?" he asks in a totally normal voice, not strangled like someone entertaining fantasies of their good friend's jean-clad legs and tiny sneaker feets dangling out of his mouth.

 _Fuuuuuuuuuck_ , Griffin screams in the back of his mind.

"Yes, I need to stop worrying a giant New York rat is going to scurry over and snatch me up." He jiggles one small leg nervously, and Griffin does not outwardly react to the mental image he has going right now. "Okay, let's go through this. I took a cab over here--"

"Right."

"And I didn't, like, talk to anyone on the way except the cab driver."

"Was the cab driver suspicious?" Griffin asks, when he really means _Was it the cab driver who granted my every filthy dream?_

"Literally everyone in this city is suspicious."

"So you took a cab," Griffin prompts, finally sitting down instead of standing at a height gawking at Nick's body, casting a shadow with his normal-sized one. He wipes his sweaty palms on his mustard cords and tries to think like a rational adult without a vore fetish.

"I took a cab and smiled at the concierge and I got in the elevator with Chinese tourists and then I got to your room and--"

He can't seem to finish.

"I can talk to the concierge," Griffin says.

Nick squeezes the bridge of his nose and sighs. "I highly doubt it's the fucking concierge. I'm either insane or cursed."

"Well, you don't need to worry, because I am on this. I have assumed Nick Robinson Protection Duty and no rat will come close. I'll hunt down whatever wizard or cab driver did this and set shit right."

Nick laughs, but then it looks like he chokes on a sob. Griffin squeezes his own kneecaps until his knuckles turn white.

"How long can this last?" Nick says, voice rough. "Fuck, am I gonna miss my flight?"

"We're gonna get you big again," Griffin says reassuringly, and starts to promise more things he has no idea how to achieve and despairs of, when a voice booms through the room.

"Eugh, fuck, just _eat him already_." It's moaned in something dissonant between a witch's screech and a demon's growl, but Griffin recognizes that voice.

"Simone?" Nick asks in a tone of ultimate betrayal.

He just saw Simone. She ate dinner and took a selfie of the gang and cackled awkwardly whenever they maintained eye contact. She was definitely not a disembodied voice screaming at Griffin to vore his friend.

"I didn't shrink that soft boy just so you could sit around not indulging your number-one fetish."

Nick turns wide eyes on him.

"It's not like, sexual," Griffin stammers.

It's mostly not sexual.

"Dude," Nick says. He doesn't appear to be panicking anymore. He keeps his gaze steady on Griffin and then glances up at the ceiling, as if Simone might be lurking there. "So Griffin's supposed to vore me?"

"Yesss," she hisses.

"Will I go back to normal after?"

"Nick--" Griffin tries to interrupt, to tell Nick not to throw himself and their friendship on that metaphorical sword, that place he can never come back from because he knows it'll be a nightmare and a daymare to relive the sweet agony of gulping Nick Robinson down. But Nick waves him off.

"Maybe," Simone says.

"I need assurances."

Simone huffs loudly. It sounds not unlike EVP on some shitty ghost hunter show. "Sure. I'll turn you after you've been inside him for ten minutes. It's up to you whether you want to make that a recurring thing."

Nick looks like he's considering that, and Griffin desperately wants to know which part.

"Deal," he says. "Also, fuck you."

Simone leaves with another cackle that trails over Griffin's skin like ASMR tingles only really gross and awful, like mouth sounds right up on his eardrum. 

Nick stands up in the very loaded silence between them. He seems to wobble a bit and extends a hand back to steady himself on the water bottle.

"Ten minutes," he says. 

"I'm sure she's just kidding. Ha ha, right, Simone?" He looks wildly around the room, like that can distract him from the fact that he's sweating and starting to breathe funny. "Ha ha?"

"Just pick me up. Do it however you wanna do it."

"Nick, really--"

"I know how important this is for you, Griffin," Nick says, and his voice is quieter. 

Griffin trembles. "Really? Like, it's cool with you?"

Nick shrugs. "What's ten minutes?"

"In my stomach," Griffin points out. "Fully in my stomach, Nick."

"Ten minutes of your darkest fantasy or whatever. I know it's important to you, and there's no one else around here looking like a Borrower."

Oh, little does Nick know. He's grit his teeth to bat away the images, the thoughts, all of them centering around Nick. He wouldn't put anyone else in his mouth, feel the bumpy way he'd have to choke him down until the relief of Nick snug in his body, warm and safe. He saw Nick Robinson years ago and just--he looked so soft. He looked like he'd go down like butter. Perfect, tiny Nick. He swallows hard.

"I'm just gonna, uh," he mumbles, and stretches out a shaky hand.

Nick fits in his palm so feather-light, like a hamster but skinnier, which is really the only point of reference Griffin has except action figures and amiibos. This is gonna be so much better than an aiimbo, this soft boy of flesh and blood. 

Nick fidgets in his careful grip but doesn't protest. Griffin brings him in close so they're face to face, or face to whole body, and shivers all over when he sees that his breath stirs Nick's hair.

"Bros?" Griffin says, a plea and a promise.

"Bros," Nick says.

And oh, God, he fits perfectly. 

\--

Simone smiles and draws a finger through her wine goblet, then licks the drop off. Delicious, but not as much as tiny Nick Robinson in Griffin McElroy's mouth, surely. She watches Griffin quiver and groan and at last force Nick's body past his esophagus, and then fall forward against the table, gasping, overwhelmed.

She wishes she'd thought to invite Big Bertha, who despite her dubious taste in manifestation serves excellent tea and always has a good story. Bertha would be glad to know the fruits of her labor, her seed of inspiration, have been plucked at last. 

Still, it's enjoyable even without Bertha's presence. Simone savors those ten minutes for an eternity, then sighs like she's the one who's been fed.

She's sated.

For now.


End file.
